


This Lonely Knight

by arthureameslove



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Enemies to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Mystery, fantasy road trip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29603298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthureameslove/pseuds/arthureameslove
Summary: Martin couldn’t remember exactly when or why he’d joined the Knights of the Lonely. He supposed that was by design.Knights of the Lonely weren’t meant to last long. They were built to take blows, and, if necessary, they were built to die. He supposed that suited him fine.But upon an assignment to escort the Watcher’s betrothed to the Kingdom of Beholding, Martin began to realize that, perhaps, there was something he was missing. Perhaps it was in the shape of a person with bright, intelligent eyes and acerbic wit, with prickly edges and a gentle smile when he thought no one was looking.There was only one problem. He wasn’t meant to let the Watcher’s betrothed reach the kingdom alive.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 55
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

“You called for me, my lord?” Martin asked, just once. The marble on which he knelt was gleaming, and yet opaque, colored like the fog of the Lonely. Martin could not see his face reflected back at him, even as he stared down at it. 

The whole room, really, was an abyss not unlike the Lonely itself. The cold distantly prickled his skin. He knew if he were aware enough of the temperature he would shiver, but because of what the Lonely had made of him, he did not. The fog lingered lovingly in his lungs when he breathed.

Lord Lukas, sitting on the throne a ways above him, finally responded. “Yes. The generals say you’ve done well in your field assignments, tracking down lost souls.”

Quietly, Martin thought that he was certain they had _not_ been lost. But they were those that had escaped the domain of the Lonely, and that could not stand. The Lonely survived on secrecy and silence, its secrets kept by a populace that never strayed far beyond its walls 

No one left the Lonely and lived to tell of it.

“Yes, my lord,” Martin answered, keeping his voice level. 

“It takes a special talent, to transport the especially unwilling, misguided though they are,” Lord Lukas said, in his falsely jovial voice.

Martin was glad, then, that he was not expected to meet Lord Lukas’ eyes, because he was sure something in his own would reveal that flash of sudden discomfort he felt at the memory. Of the people he brought back, struggling, pleading, crying that they wanted to remember who they'd been, the life outside.

Lonely knights could not be convinced to stray from their orders, of course. For they did not feel. 

Martin often wondered if something had gone wrong, when he’d first devoted himself to service. Something surely must have. The others weren’t haunted by ghosts of emotion like he was, at times, like prickling nuisances in his chest. Pity or sorrow, at the most inconvenient times. 

“Yes, my lord,” Martin said instead, conscious that too long of a silence would mean an implicit disagreement, and, likely, a punishment.

“As it happens,” Lord Lukas said, “I find myself in need of someone with such exemplary skills.”

“I would be honored to serve, my lord,” Martin answered, an automatic response ingrained in him. Perhaps, at this point, service was tattooed on his very soul.

“Good,” Lord Lukas said, as if Martin actually could have refused. “Lord Magnus has asked for our help in delivering his betrothed to him.”

Martin frowned at the marble below him, his leather armor creaking as he shifted ever so slightly. “His...betrothed?” he asked, thoughtlessly. 

There was a weighty silence. Then, in Lukas’ dangerously jovial voice, Martin could hear the threat like a shark’s smile, white as whalebone. “Questioning your orders?”

“Apologies, my lord,” Martin hurriedly said. Distantly, he felt his heart pounding, but at this point in his training he felt so disconnected from his body it almost seemed like a drum, sounding from far away. “I meant nothing of the sort. I only hadn’t realized the Watcher intended to marry.”

“Yes, it came rather of a shock to many of us,” Lord Lukas intoned, that razor threat in his voice dissipating. Even as he still sounded pleasant, Martin noted the mist thickening in the room. It was a telltale sign Lord Lukas was _not_ pleased, though, Martin thought thankfully, it didn’t seem to be directed at him. 

“And it is not a coincidence that he has decided now, with the eve of the Eye’s eclipse approaching, to do so.” There was a sound of Lukas rising, his booted footsteps echoing on the marble. Martin saw in his periphery that Lord Lukas came to stand before him, but he didn’t dare raise his eyes. “So, to your duty. You will take his betrothed close enough to the Kingdom of Beholding that it is clear there were no attempts at a purposeful betrayal. But you will ensure he does not reach the Kingdom of Beholding.”

Martin frowned down at the marble, uncertain if he’d heard correctly.

Lukas continued, “Ensure it appears accidental. Some natural death befalling him on the road. Perhaps the Stranger’s domain would be far enough. Lady Nikola is always keen for trespassers.”

“My lord,” Martin asked, tentatively, “so I...understand completely, you want me to...fail?”

“I do,” Lord Lukas answered. “And I will arrange whatever punishment Lord Magnus deems fit for you, in bringing about the loss of his betrothed. Perhaps death, but I rather think with Magnus' wrathful streak, it will be something far less kind.”

Martin stared at the swirl of marble, his head such a storm it felt empty. Lukas’ hand came down and brushed, gently, through his hair. The freezing ache of the touch chilled Martin’s skin, settling in his fluttering lungs. 

“This would be of the utmost value to the kingdom. You’ll be glad to do it, won’t you?”

Martin wanted to ask why. Why this person--this betrothed--was so dangerous to Lord Lukas, so important to Magnus’ plans, that he had to die. But what he wanted and what he could freely do were to very different things.

So Martin answered, around his leaden tongue, “yes, my lord.”

“Very good,” Lord Lukas said. This time, as the fog curled against his cheek, Martin could tell he was pleased. Martin wondered, as the curl of it sent shivers down his spine, if this was what a human’s caress felt like. Perhaps he’d known, once. Before he’d pledged himself to the Lonely. 

But he couldn’t remember it.

“Your contact will wait for you at the Hunt’s gates tomorrow morning,” Lukas said. "Pay the huntress and ensure Magnus' betrothed stays put, at least until Nikola's domain. I'm told he's...flighty."

Martin recognized the dismissal in the pause that followed. “Yes, my lord,” he said, pushing up to his feet, his aching joints a far away thing.

He was careful, as all of them always were, to avoid meeting Lord Lukas’ eyes as he bowed and left the room.

* * *

The Hunt’s gates were towering, brutal things. Sky high, made of metal and oak that was stained with the red of bodies that had tried and failed to take the Kingdom. Even now, outside of wartime, the bodies of criminals and deserters hung from them, bloody reminders of the Hunt’s violence. 

Martin didn’t fear the Hunt, because of course, he no longer had the capacity to feel such things very strongly at all. But he was objectively glad that the Hunt had never been an enemy of the Lonely. 

As Martin approached on horseback, the line attached to the second horse for his soon-to-be companion trailing behind, he saw the two figures that waited for him outside the gates. They were pinpricks at first, through the mist of early morning, but as he distance shrunk, Martin saw the taller of them—a woman, blonde, lithe, brutal—was clutching onto the other one’s arm, a man who was smaller, darker skinned, and cringed away from her. 

Martin supposed, as he came closer, that he was an understandable choice for a betrothed. He didn’t look like a royal, with his dirtied clothing and messy, greying hair, but his face was...nice to look at. High cheekbones and arched brows and a full mouth and large, bright brown eyes. 

Eyes that settled on Martin’s approach, when he came close enough, and stared defiantly, almost angry, bright and combative. It was a strangely intriguing combination, with the man's objectively small, slight frame. 

The woman stared Martin down as well, her body coiling in a way that reminded him of a predator, preparing in case of the need to strike. “Name?” she asked, curtly, when Martin came close enough to be within earshot.

Martin looked at the man beside her, for a moment, who stood as far away from the woman as he could with her brutal grip around his arm. The man stared at him with that defiant anger, but, closer now, Martin recognized the flicker of fear in his face. 

A flicker of...something--sympathy, sadness? Martin sometimes thought he no longer had the names for them, anymore--sparked in him, for a moment, but he let the fog in his chest swallow it down. “Blackwood,” he answered, looking back at her levelly. “Lord Lukas sends his thanks.”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Sure,” she said, her mouth curling. “Where’s my payment, then?”

Martin untied the pouch of gold the treasury had supplied him from the reins, tossing it at her. She caught it deftly with her free hand, using her teeth to untie the string, and peering inside. 

The man beside her had his jaw set tightly, and was looking away, his hands balled into fists. Martin stared at him, as the woman considered the gold’s weight. The man didn’t look like someone eager to be carted off to marriage. In fact, with the way the man stared at the distant treeline of the woods, he looked like he was romanticizing the idea of bolting into them.

Martin forcefully drew his eyes away from the line of the man’s jaw and said, shortly, “it’s all there.”

The woman bared his teeth at him for the interruption, but quietly seemed to agree, because she closed a fist around the pouch. “You hear that?” she said to the man, her grin crooked and full of sharp teeth as she yanked him closer, drawing a yelp from him. “It’s your lucky day.”

She used her grip on him to yank him closer to where Martin waited, letting him stumble as she let go of him. The man clutched his arm closer to his chest, his shoulders hiking up, tense, as he glared back at her. There was a moment in which the man’s eyes flicked to the forest behind Martin, in which he seemed to consider whether or not he could get away. But a quick glance behind, to the woman who still watched with those wolf-like eyes, seemed to sway him against it. 

He looked up at Martin, unease and poorly concealed fear written on his features. Martin looked back at him evenly. He jerked his head behind him. “That’s your horse.”

The man blinked at him, his eyes darting to the extra horse Martin had brought in tow, then back. “I’m not getting on that thing,” he said, that defiant look back in his eyes. 

His voice was unexpectedly deep, hoarse, but low and warm like woodsmoke. It took Martin a moment to realize what he’d said. 

The woman came up from behind him and took his arm, shaking him roughly. “You’ll not jeopardize this deal for me. _Get_ on the horse--”

“Seeing as you’ve been paid,” Martin interjected coldly, drawing her attention, “he’s no longer yours. Kindly take your hands off him.” Pointedly, he rested his hand on the handle of the sword at his side.

She again bared her teeth at him, but did as he asked, though she let go of the man with a little shove that drew a pained sound from him. “Fine. It’s your problem when he takes off into the brush, then.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Martin smiled at her, his own show of teeth. “Pleasure doing business with one of the Hunt’s finest.” He watched for a moment, ensuring she turned away back toward her domain. Then, to the man, who looked a little lost, he said, “it’s a long journey to Beholding. We’ll need to be on horseback.”

The man glared defiantly for a moment longer, before he looked down and mumbled something. 

“Sorry?” Martin asked, raising a brow.

“I’ve never been on a horse,” the man grit out, looking tense.

“Ah,” Martin said, considering. That might prove to be a problem. “Well,” he decided, “you’ll just have to ride with me, then.”

The man stared at him, his mouth opening and closing. “Wha--with _you_?”

“Yes,” Martin answered distractedly, turning to tie the second horse’s lead away. He looked up at the woman, who had begun her trek back to the gates, and whistled. “Oi!” When she turned, he pointedly held up the lead. “An addition to your payment.” She gaped at him, for a moment seeming to weigh whether or not he was joking. He decided on dropping the lead, and letting her deal with the skittering horse, as he looked back at the man, who hadn’t really moved. 

He was still staring at Martin with that combination of wariness and confusion, like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do next. 

Martin held out a hand to him. “Put your right foot in the stirrup,” he said, “and I’ll help you swing over.”

The man hesitated, looking, again, tense, as if he was considering bolting again. Martin looked back, wondering what was it that Lord Magnus could have wanted with him. It must have been _something,_ if Lord Lukas was willing to risk breaking the peace between the Lonely and Beholding to ensure this man never reached Magnus. Martin very much doubted that something was love, as little acquainted as he was with the feeling.

“If you hesitate any longer, we won’t get through the woods before dusk,” Martin told him, only half-joking. “And the creatures in those woods are ruthless at night.” 

Something...unpleasant sparked in Martin’s chest when the man cast a fear-filled glance at the treeline. Martin sighed at the unwelcome feeling, which the man must have taken as a sound of impatience, because he looked, suddenly, nervous, as if Martin might forcefully reach for him. 

Instead, Martin kept his hand steady, waiting, though he made sure to still look at the man expectantly. Tentatively, the man reached out and took his hand, his foot settling in the stirrup Martin had vacated. His hand was warm and a little sweaty. His pulse thrummed fast against Martin’s fingers. It was the first contact Martin had had in a while that was not meant to hurt. His skin--soft, uncalloused--felt almost too hot against Martin’s perpetually cold skin.

“On three,” Martin said, forcing his voice to come out evenly, “you’re going to push up on your right foot, and ease your other leg around. Alright?”

The man stared at him for a moment, his large, brown eyes searching his face, before nodding. Martin counted, and on three, helped ease him over so he was settled just before him on the saddle. There was just room enough for him to fit, but only if he rode pressed up against Martin’s front. The man was almost unbearably warm, so very different from the lonely creatures Martin knew. The man seemed to have expected the sudden contact as much as Martin--which was to say, not at all--, going a little tense when he finally settled. Though perhaps that was also because the horse shifted at the added weight, its hooves sending plumes of dust into the air around them. 

Martin steadied the horse with a twitch of the reins, though his attention was on the other man. “Don’t worry,” he told him. “I won’t let you fall.”

“Thanks,” the man said, shortly, and it sounded more like a scathing insult than an expression of gratitude. Though, when the horse shifted again, the man sucked in a breath and leaned back into him, his hand flying back for something to steady himself on and landing on Martin’s thigh. 

The heat of him was a strange kind of agony. Martin was thankful of the armor that provided at least some barrier. Still, Martin didn’t want the man to fall since he was an inexperienced rider.

He gathered the reins in his left hand, and used his right to wrap around the man’s middle. The man went stiff under Martin’s touch, for a moment, but slowly the tension began to bleed out of him. Martin almost thought it was begrudging, the way the man gave in to leaning back against him simply to have some assurance he wouldn’t fall off. He smelled like sweat and fear and cardamom. 

“Better?” Martin asked, after he’d settled.

“How long until we get there?” the man grit out, after a tense moment. 

“Depends on the weather and the terrain. And the things we run into, I suppose,” he added honestly, noticing that the man went a little tense when he said that. Martin wanted to reassure him that he’d protect him, but he supposed since he was supposed to be the man’s escort that would go without saying. 

It would also be a lie. 

“Could be anywhere from a week and a half to a few weeks,” Martin continued, keeping his voice carefully neutral. 

“Great,” the man breathed out. He glanced back at Martin, looking over him out of the corner of his eye. Martin looked back, nonplussed, raising a brow. “So you’re...from the Lonely?” the man asked, tentatively, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed the question. 

Martin supposed that made sense. The Lonely guarded its secrets with a violent, cold wrath. Though this was not a secret. “Yes,” Martin answered easily. 

The man looked at him a moment longer, and seemed a few times to gear up to say something before stopping. Finally, he asked, “what’s your name?”

The whole of his name, the way it was supposed to roll off of his tongue, took a moment to genuinely remember. Identity was not much of a thing that mattered among the knights. “Martin,” he said, finally. “You can call me Martin.”

The man stared at him for a moment longer, before letting out a sigh and nodding, turning back around. 

Martin’s brow furrowed. That...wasn’t how these conversations were meant to go, was it? “And...your name is?”

“Do you actually care?” the man shot back, turning his head to glare. Martin must have looked sufficiently lost for a response, because something in the man’s expression softened a little, and he sighed again. When he turned back around, Martin barely heard him when he said, “Jon. My name is Jon.”

 _Jon._ Martin had an absurd urge to say it out loud, taste the name on his tongue and see if it left his mouth with a similar warmth. 

He did not. Instead he said, a little stiltedly since he’d not had anyone introduce themselves to him in longer than he could remember, “I see.” This seemed to be the wrong response, as Jon went a little tense against him. Martin waited, for a moment, but Jon didn’t turn around again, and didn’t say anything more. 

Martin took it as his cue to get them going, digging his heels into the horse’s sides to start them in a trot. Jon inhaled sharply at the sudden motion, leaning back against him. Martin tightened his grip around him, meaning for it to be a reassurance and hopeful it came across that way. “It’s alright,” he said, softly. “We won’t go much faster than this.”

Jerkily, Jon nodded, his jaw clenched tight. His hand clutched at Martin’s thigh, blunt fingers digging in, and though the Lonely numbed the pressure of it, Martin could still feel the pervasive warmth, bleeding through. 

_Don’t worry,_ he wanted to say again, to ease that tension. _I’ll protect you._

But it wouldn’t have been true. Because he was meant to ensure Jon never made it to Beholding. 

No, he thought, as the Kingdom of the Hunt became a speck behind them, and Jon’s body rocked against him with the horse’s movements. Best not say anything of the kind. The words would only taste bitter and flat on his tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

It was very clear Jon was inexperienced on horseback. Though they were traveling slow—in fact, far slower than Martin would have liked—the tension in Jon’s muscles never seemed to fade away completely, and it was precisely that tension that kept him so off balance every time the horse made an exaggerated movement. Jon didn’t complain, however. Didn’t say much of anything at all, and stared resolutely forward as they went on. He seemed devoted to the task of ignoring Martin entirely, and Martin really couldn’t determine if this was a good thing or not. Certainly it could make the task of escorting Jon as far as the Stranger’s domain difficult. 

And yet, Martin couldn’t help but note it was an easier thing to consider what he was supposed to do when Jon wasn’t looking at him with those sharp, assessing eyes. In truth, Martin hadn’t thought much yet about how he was going to do it. There were certainly many fatal threats in the Stranger’s domain—skinnings and parasitic creatures that stole life itself—but they all seemed too...brutal. Through the gaps in the fog that ebbed and flowed in his veins, there was a spark of something unpleasant at the very thought.

To curb the irritating emotion, Martin instinctively pulled the fog of the Lonely closer to him, like tugging on a blanket. Jon shivered at the sudden cold, glancing back at Martin for the briefest moment, suspicion and fear written in his wide eyes. When he turned back to face front, he seemed even more stiff and uncomfortable than before. 

Strangely, even through the fog of the Lonely, that unpleasant feeling refused to abate. Martin could still feel its echo. And the fog only made the heat of Jon’s body that much more noticeable. 

The forest passed by in a monotonous blur, the wind picking up as the sun sank lower. These woods weren’t a territory claimed by any of the kingdoms, which made it both a boon to pass through, and yet one that required caution. Some residents of neighboring kingdoms liked to hunt in the unaffiliated territories, hoping to find some poor traveler who remained untouched by any of the fears to feed upon. And most did so after dark. The odds of them running into anyone now were slim, but Martin still kept his eyes open for anything amiss amongst the trees. 

He didn’t mind the quiet. It was something he was acutely accustomed to. But as the hours passed, Jon seemed to get more restless, shifting distractingly. As close as they were, he was a pillar of wriggling warmth that drew Martin’s attention away from his careful survey of the trees at odd intervals. After the sixth time, Martin stifled a sigh and asked, flatly, “are you alright?”

Jon went still, glancing back at him out of the corner of his eye, the look quick and assessing. That nervous look on his face returned, initially, as he looked Martin over, but he was better at quickly hiding it away. “ _How much longer?_ ” Jon asked, a strange, buzzing insistence to the question.

“We’ll need at least an hour longer to ride before reaching Vast territory,” Martin answered without thinking. He blinked immediately after, reeling from the compulsion. Of _course_ Jon was Eye aligned, he was Magnus’ betrothed after all. Martin cursed himself for not thinking of it.

Jon had seemed to startle at Martin’s words, turning farther around to look up at Martin more intently, brown eyes narrowed. “ _Why—?”_

“Don’t,” Martin said coldly, before Jon could get out the rest of the question, “compel me.”

“Why not?” Jon shot back, voice barbed, eyes narrowed to slits. “It’s not like you’re under any other obligation to tell me the truth.”

“Consider common courtesy then,” Martin said. He could feel a discontented, icy fog forming in his throat as he spoke. The Lonely didn’t like its secrets stolen away. “I haven’t done anything to you, have I? Haven’t drawn up that lonely ache in you and made it the only thing you can think about. Haven’t sent you away for the Lonely to feed from.”

Jon stared at him, eyes wide. The fear Jon felt was desperately kept off of his face, but Martin saw it in the breath of fog that left his mouth, with every little, quick intake of breath. When Jon spoke, though, his voice didn’t waver at all. “Is that a threat?”

“Do you need it to be a threat?” Martin asked flatly, staring back at Jon levelly. 

He saw Jon’s jaw clench as he ground his teeth. There was, briefly, that defiant anger that lit up in his eyes. It was so bright, so alive, Martin thought he might be scalded by it if he looked too long. But Jon looked away, his eyes sliding to the side and something flickering over his face, an emotion Martin didn’t have enough time to name, but one that brought back that unpleasant feeling. 

Martin didn’t know why, but he found himself saying, “I don’t _want_ to hurt you, Jon.” Martin supposed it was true. Would be true, even if Jon compelled him. Though Martin really wasn’t supposed to care one way or the other. “Honestly, I just want this to be done with. And I’m sure you do too.” This was both true, and not true. Martin didn’t _want_ to be there, with Jon, with his feelings choppy, confused, instead of the glassy calm it should have been. But when he thought of the end of this journey, when he thought of what he was supposed to—

Well. He didn’t like to think of it. That was the problem.

And if Jon decided to try to compel him anyway, he could _know that._

Martin saw Jon consider him out of the corner of his eye for a few moments, his head slightly turned toward him. Martin couldn’t exactly tell, but he thought he noticed some of that tension leave Jon’s shoulders. Finally, carefully, Jon grit out, without compulsion, “why are we going through the _Vast?”_

Martin stifled the sigh that came with the flicker of relief. “Vast territory skirts a majority of the way” he answered easily. “It makes sense.”

“It _doesn’t_ actually,” Jon grit out. “Vast territory will stretch the journey days longer than it should take—”

“But it will also save us from having to traverse the Fleshlands,” Martin pointed out, watching as Jon’s face screwed up in disgust even at the mention of the name. “Or Dark territory, which would make things suitably difficult for obvious reasons.”

Jon opened his mouth, brows furrowed over narrowed eyes as if he wanted to argue, but a moment passed and he seemed to swallow it down, turning back to face front. Martin thought that would be the end of it, but then Jon was saying, still not looking at him, “so you’re meant to take me all the way to Beholding?”

For a moment, Martin pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his teeth grinding together. There was that spark, that unpleasant feeling again. “Yes,” he made sure he said, his voice utterly level. 

Jon made a scoffing sound. “What—not going to pass me off to anyone else?” he asked acidly. “Sell me like that huntress?”

Martin blinked at the back of his head, for a moment taken aback by the sheer vitriol. Jon was again tense as steel under his arm. “No,” he answered, honestly this time. 

“Great,” Jon muttered joylessly. “So I’ll just have to worry about you then. Watching my every move. Making sure Magnus gets his precious _cargo._ ”

Martin studied what parts of Jon he could see, which at the moment was largely just his waves of black hair, streaked through with grey. “You’re not nobility,” Martin found himself saying. It wasn’t quite a question.

Jon glanced back at him again, an unimpressed look on his face. “No,” he confirmed dryly. “Obviously.”

“So why does Lord Magnus want you?” Martin couldn’t help but ask, voicing the question that had nagged at him all day. Jon stiffened again, head turned, but not quite looking at him. “Why do you have to be escorted at all?” Martin continued, all his questions bubbling up, “If you’re set to marry Lord Magnus, what were you doing in _Hunt_ territory—?”

Jon abruptly grabbed at the reins above Martin’s grip on them, pulling too hard, leaving Martin to quickly ease up so as to keep the horse from bucking. Before Martin could say anything, Jon whirled around, his eyes hard. “I have to take a piss,” he said, matter of factly. “Let me off.”

Martin blinked at him, processing, feeling a spark of irritation before it muted itself. “Wha—“ But then Jon was trying to make his own way off the horse, trying to stand up in the stirrups to get the leverage to lift his leg over. The horse skittered nervously. “Hey— _stop,_ ” Martin told him. His hands settled around Jon’s waist to stop him when he continued to try to scramble out of the saddle—for a moment, Martin was struck by how slight he was, how his hands seemed to engulf so much of him, and again, just how _warm_ he was _—_ but he let go when Jon whirled and hissed, “ _don’t_ touch me.”

Martin raised his hands placatingly, watching as that flicker of fear under the anger faded. Jon’s eyes searched his face, his brow furrowed. If Martin concentrated, he could see the ghostlike swirl of loneliness that left Jon’s mouth and nose like breath, tinged with distrust, fear, helplessness.

He was suddenly hard to look at. Too bright, too real, emotion pulsing hot under his skin where it no longer did in Martin’s. 

Martin looked away, at the tree line, swallowing around the strange, sudden tightness of his throat. “You’ll have to learn how to dismount,” Martin murmured, when he felt confident in his voice again. He could feel Jon looking at him, as he sat as far from Martin as humanly possible. “I might not always be there to help you do so,” he said, not quite knowing why. He could feel Jon’s attention more acutely, his eyes burning holes into the side of his face. 

Martin quickly dismounted, an easy, instinctual thing, but he held up a hand to stop Jon when he seemed to frantically try to recreate the movement. “No, not like that,” he corrected. “You need to—“ he reached out to demonstrate, but his hand froze above Jon’s arm, remembering Jon’s reaction the last time he’d been touched. He met Jon’s eyes. They were unreadable, dark and fathomless and intent on him. “Could I...?”

Martin let the question hover in the air, watching as Jon’s eyes flickered to Martin’s hand, then met his eyes again. Jon nodded, once, jerkily. 

Martin guided his hands, then, trying to ignore the incessant warmth. He direct Jon’s movements, and showed Jon how to swing his leg over without falling clean off the horse.

Jon lost his balance a little on the landing, stumbling back into Martin. In the moment of contact, Martin could only think of the incessant _heat,_ and then Jon was jerking away from him as if he was the one burned. 

Martin watched as Jon took a few steps to increase the distance between them and then as he winced with the ache of muscles that had been held stiff for so long. Martin couldn’t feel the ache in his legs through the fog, but he had a lingering memory of what that pain felt like. Before he’d completed his training, before they’d chilled the pain straight out of him.

Martin snapped to attention when Jon began to head beyond the path, into the trees. He followed, instinctive, but stopped when Jon glanced back and leveled a glare at him that could curdle milk. 

“What part of _take_ a _piss_ don’t you understand?” Jon grit out. 

Martin narrowed his eyes, unable to restrain a little flare of irritation. “You shouldn’t stray from the path. It isn’t—“

“I’m not _stupid,_ ” Jon shot back, balling his fists. “I’m not going far.”

“See that you don’t,” Martin told him, which seemed like the wrong thing to say, judging by how Jon’s expression flashed with anger. 

It was almost impressive, how Jon could look imperious even when a head smaller than Martin, his clothes—an academic’s clothes, not suited for traveling—worn and dirty. “Turn around,” Jon said tightly. At Martin’s scoff, he grit out, “is it too much to ask for privacy?”

Martin punched out a sigh through his nose, looking skyward, and then turning around. At this rate, perhaps he wouldn’t even have to confront what he’d have to do, when they got far enough along. If Jon insisted on stopping this often, this abruptly, they’d never make it to the Stranger. 

Martin heard rustling footsteps as Jon stepped farther into the underbrush, and then the footsteps stopped. He chanced a glance behind to make sure Jon was still there, and caught a glimpse of his shirt through the tangle of trees. Martin turned back, absently staring into the trees on the other side of the trail. 

After a moment, there was a crack, like the sound of a twig snapping, from the other side. Martin went tense, his eyes scanning for what had made the sound. He rested his hand on the handle of his sword, slowly crossing the trail to get a better look. He couldn’t see anything amiss in the thick coverage of trees, though, for some reason, he was unable to relax, a sense of foreboding setting his teeth on edge. “Jon!” he called back, keeping his gaze on the treeline. “Hurry up! We’re leaving!” 

And then he smelled it. A whiff of sickly sweet rot that drifted on the breeze. 

The smell was achingly familiar in a way he couldn’t hope to place. It played at the edges of his memory, taunting the part of it that was fogged over, numbed away. He didn’t know why it made his stomach drop. 

But he knew what that smell was. 

“Jon!” he called, louder, whirling around and tearing back to the place he had last seen that flash of him. “Jon, we have to—!” Martin froze, for a moment, when he realized Jon was not where he’d left him. Jon was gone.

But Martin could see the tracks his footprints had made in the mud and dirt.

Martin cursed, racing back to where he’d left the horse and mounting quickly, digging his heels into the horse’s sides to spur it on faster through the underbrush. Martin followed the tracks Jon had made— _careless,_ he couldn’t help but think. But then he’d been careless too. _I’m told he’s...flighty,_ Lord Lukas had told him. Of course Jon would try to bolt. 

Why did Magnus want him, Martin couldn’t help but wonder again, as he rode. An unwilling husband? Surely that would be more trouble than it was worth?

Questions he would be sure to ask Jon, once Martin caught up with him again. He couldn’t have gone far on foot. Martin rode fast, alternating between glances at the tracks below and quick flashes up to weave through the trees. He let the Lonely help him as well, keeping his senses open to that particular lonely fog that ran through Jon’s lungs, sharp with fear and helplessness. 

When the trees began to thin, he caught a hint of it, thin and dissipating in the air. He pushed the horse faster, ignoring the distant sting as branches whipped at his face. He broke into a clearing, and, finally, he saw Jon, who was nearly halfway across. 

Jon glanced back at him, eyes wide, but his expression settled into one of grim defiance. He didn’t try to go any farther. He merely waited, and watched as Martin dismounted and closed the distance between them. 

“What _exactly,_ ” Martin began, when he was close enough, “were you hoping to accompli—” the word pettered off into nothing when the ground suddenly gave way beneath him, the earth losing its solidity, the soil shifting like a living thing. He fell, scrabbling for purchase at soil that did nothing but shift through his fingers, until the earth decided to harden again, cinching itself painfully around his lungs. He supposed he should be happy the sinking decided to let up before his head was swallowed by it. As it was, his arms were pinned to his sides by unyielding earth, the pinch of it giving way only at his shoulders. 

Jon’s shoes filled his field of vision, scuffed and muddy and ridiculously inappropriate for traveling. Martin glared up at him. Jon was looking down with an expression that was trying not to be smug, but failed miserably. “You shouldn’t have strayed from the path,” Jon tsked, raising a brow. “This forest has recently been ravaged by Buried sinkholes, you see.”

 _“Jon—“_ Martin grit out. 

“Sorry,” Jon said, not sounding remotely sorry. He took a step back. “But I can't have you following me. The soil should loosen up again within a few hours, give or take. You should be able to get out then.” 

Martin huffed a disbelieving breath, futilely straining against the unyielding earth. “You—“

“Now,” Jon said, “you can return to the Lonely like I’m sure you want to, and I can be on my way. I’d say it’s been a pleasure,” Jon continued dryly, taking another step back. “But that would be disingenuous.” 

Martin grit his teeth against the spark of fury, hot and unfamiliar, in his gut. He opened his mouth to say something else, but trailed off when he saw the soil shift strangely just behind Jon’s feet. It wasn’t like the sudden give of the earth that had taken him, but rather...several points of slight movement. Like something burrowed had decided to emerge.

Almost in the same moment, Martin felt movement around his arm, and then a very distant, itching sensation. And smelled the distant scent of rot. 

The breath left his lungs in realization. “Jon!” he called, but Jon wasn’t looking at him, was walking away oblivious to the shifting of the earth at his heels, the movement expanding across a larger and larger radius.

“ _Jon!_ Let me out _right now—_ ”

“Relax,” Jon shot back, not even _looking,_ “the sinkhole won’t kill you—” Jon cut off with a gasp that sounded more like surprise than pain. “What— _ow—_ ”

And then Martin could see them. Tiny flashes of silver, burrowing into the skin of Jon’s ankle, as the earth made way for them. Jon fell, scrambling back on his hands, shouting as more rose from the dirt and burrowed themselves into him instead. 

Martin strained against the earth that held him still, gritting his teeth and shifting to the point of almost-pain, a faded sense of discomfort that told him he might have torn something, some muscle, somewhere. He wasn’t really certain. But the ground refused to give. 

And then, something else, something larger was churning its way from the earth just beyond Jon’s scrabbling feet. A head with matted hair emerged, covered in twitching ants. And then a face, so pockmarked the features were marred almost beyond recognition. And thin, sickly arms that clawed up from the dirt. The woman that emerged made a sound like a garbled sigh, her attention boring into Jon through empty sockets, eyes long since eaten away. _“Yes,”_ she seemed to say, continuing her garbled speech even as Jon screamed, his leg dripping blood, _“let them join you. Let them come home.”_

Martin stopped straining. Instead, he went still, and closed his eyes. And, for a moment, he let the Lonely itself swallow him. 

There was a reason knights were taught to travel distances without the Lonely. It could be useful, in certain moments. Kept you hidden away in a corner of a place that did not quite exist, invisible to those who were not Lonely themselves. Let you travel distances unseen, unimpeded. But it was a hungry place, and did not like to let go. Grey winds whipped at your skin, tearing your purpose, tearing at memory. The air was thin, crystallized in the lungs. The fog sang for you to stay and forget entirely. Martin had known of a few knights who had relied too heavily on it, and had lost themselves to it. He couldn’t remember what they’d looked like, or what they had been like. The Lonely had stripped it all away. 

So Martin moved quickly, and he moved surely. He let the whipping, icy winds of the Lonely carry him to just the right point...

And, seeing the woman’s ruined face through the fog, he gripped at his sword with icy fingers and forced himself back through the fog. Her face twitched in what might have been fear or confusion as he emerged, seemingly from nowhere, just before her. Martin didn’t give her time to react. Martin swung his sword, throwing the whole of his momentum into the movement, and severed her head cleanly from her shoulders as smoothly as if cutting through butter. 

Her head tumbled to the ground, the stump of her neck oozing a sickly black liquid as her body thumped to the ground a moment later. The chittering of insects around them stopped. Martin looked down, seeing the worms that had begun to bury themselves through thick leather of his boots had stopped their wriggling movement and remained still. 

He stared blankly at them, the fog from the Lonely still heavy in his head. A whimper sounded behind him. Who was that again? He turned, and saw an achingly familiar man on the ground, his brown hands fluttering over his leg, the trousers stained red, dotted with bloody holes. The man’s wide, brown eyes were looking at him, as if looking straight into his soul. Martin felt seen, pinned in place, drawn to be _present_ in such a rush that it almost hurt. Martin looked, and he remembered who the man was, and it all flooded back at once. _Oh yes,_ he thought, a little fuzzily. _Jon. That’s Jon._

“You killed her,” Jon gasped out, looking down at the woman, then back up at him, his eyes wide and a little wondering. “How—“ he glanced back at the hole in the ground, then back. “How did you—” he cut off with another whimper when he shifted his weight, his hands fluttering over his leg. 

Martin glanced at the sun in the sky, sunk dangerously low. He sheathed his sword, silently a bit irritated he didn’t have the luxury of cleaning off the black gunk from it before he did so. He crossed the small distance between he and Jon quickly, reaching out a hand to him. “I’m going to carry you to the horse,” Martin told him. Jon opened his mouth in what looked like a protest, but Martin continued levelly, “it’ll be dark soon. We have to ride farther before that happens, or there will be more things like her that will try for an easy meal. Do you understand?”

Jon stared at him, wide-eyed, for a moment. He glanced at the woman’s body, and then back, his lips pressed tightly together. He nodded, once, and took Martin’s hand. 

Martin ignored the insistent heat of Jon’s skin through the gloves that he wore, focusing on pulling Jon to his feet and then over Martin’s shoulder before too much weight could be put on his injured leg. Jon let out a little _oof_ sound when his stomach met Martin’s shoulder, his hands grabbing at the leather edge of Martin’s chest armor for purchase. “This is humiliating,” Jon muttered breathily, as Martin carried him toward the waiting horse. 

“Would you rather _walk?”_ Martin asked him.

“You are _utterly insufferable—_ ”

“Yeah, well, I _also_ saved your life. A little acknowledgement of that point would be nice.”

Jon went silent and didn’t say anything else.

It was far more difficult than last time, getting Jon on the horse. But they managed, and soon Martin was swinging into the saddle behind him, taking up the reins, and spurring the horse on. Jon tried to stay quiet on the way. But Martin could tell he was stifling little noises of pain with the natural movement of the horse as it jostled his injured leg. His breath was coming in short little gasps as they rode, his blunt nails digging into Martin’s arm guard where his arm was wound around him to keep him steady. Jon didn’t even seem to notice he was doing it, and when Martin leaned to the side to catch a glimpse of his face, he could see Jon’s eyes were screwed shut, his face twisted up in pain, ashen. 

Martin glanced at the thinning trees around them, punching out a breath. He pulled the reins, bringing the horse’s canter to a stop. Jon took a breath, opening his eyes and looking around. When he spoke his voice was thin, wavering, “where are—we’re not—”

“We’re at the outskirts,” Martin explained, guiding the horse slowly to a tree so he could tie off an extension of the reins to it. “Vast territory isn’t too far. I think we’re close enough that we won’t run into any other fear-touched. Vast tends to drive away competition that strays too close.”

“You _think,”_ Jon gasped out, unimpressed even through the pain. 

Martin sent him an unimpressed look right back. “We’re not going any farther, Jon. Look at you.”

It seemed a testament to how much pain Jon was in that he didn’t bother to give a scathing retort. Martin swung his leg over, hopping off the horse, and holding out a hand to Jon to help him down. “Come on,” he said, “we need to clean out those wounds before they get infected.”

* * *

There was a creek near where they stopped that they were able to settle by. The sound that Jon made when he sat on one of the rocks and stretched out his injured leg was a curious mix of relief and pain. “ _Shit_ _,”_ he hissed, “how...how bad is it, do you think?”

Martin looked up from rummaging through his pack, drawing out bandages. “Don’t touch it,” he instructed.

“I _wasn’t—_ ”

“Liar,” Martin shot back. “You were going to try to scratch at it. I saw you.”

Jon opened his mouth, the expression on his face indignant, but there must have been another flare of pain from his leg because he exhaled roughly, closing his eyes, any protest dying on his tongue. “Course I was trying to scratch it.” he muttered. “It _itches.”_

Martin put the pack down, making his way over. “Let me see,” he murmured, kneeling before him. Despite his attempts to be gentle, rolling the leg of Jon’s trousers up, Jon still hissed at the brush of fabric against the small wounds left behind. Martin studied the marks left behind. Most of the worms had fallen out once the woman had been killed—cut off the head, and the body dies, after all—but some had managed to burrow in so deep that they remained. Martin made an appraising sound, looking up to meet Jon’s wide eyes. “I need to start a fire,” he said simply. 

Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You...?”

“Need to sterilize something to get them out,” Martin clarified. 

Jon’s face suddenly looked that much more ashen. “Ah,” he said, faintly. 

“I’ll be quick,” Martin promised. 

True to his word, Martin got a fire going as fast as he was able to, with the chill of the wind. He picked out the smallest knife he had—admittedly not ideally shaped for the task, but it was all he had. He ran the blade through the flame, long enough that he could see the tip glow hot before pulling it back, letting it cool. 

He could see Jon watching out of the corner of his eye, his face pale, jaw set tight. Martin could see that apprehension grow as he approached. Martin knelt again, looking over at his leg, then up at Jon’s face. Jon’s breaths were coming faster and he kept glancing at the knife. “Jon,” Martin murmured, drawing his attention. Those large, brown eyes stared back at him. “You’re going to be fine. I promise it’ll be quick. Alright?”

Jon swallowed visibly, the line of his throat bobbing up and down. He screwed his eyes shut and nodded, his chest heaving as he took breaths to try to settle himself. “Alright,” he said tightly. 

Taking one last look at his face, Martin shucked off one of his gloves and handed it to him. “Put it in your mouth,” Martin told him, at Jon’s confused look. Jon’s face screwed up in disgust, but Martin explained, “I don’t want you to accidentally bite your tongue.”

Jon huffed out breath, glaring at him, then looking skyward. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened his mouth and bit down on the leather. He said something, muffled, that sounded suspiciously like _I hate you._

“What was that?” Martin asked, raising a brow. 

He heard Jon mutter a muffled, _nothing,_ his face still turned skyward.

Martin wrangled a confusing start of a smile back into a flat line. The motion felt...strange on his face. 

He looked up at Jon once more, and murmured, “Jon?”

Jon made a noise of assent.

“Keep looking away, alright?”

There was a longer pause this time, but then another noise of assent. So Martin put his left hand on Jon’s knee, above the damage, to steady the leg. And then he began. 

He worked quickly. Disturbing the flesh as little as possible to get the bodies of the worms out. Jon made shockingly little noise, but when Martin chanced a glance up, he could see Jon’s arms wrapped around himself, his knuckles white, his face screwed up in pain, tears leaking from the corners of eyes tightly shut. Seeing Jon’s face like that...Martin didn’t like it. It made that unpleasant feeling in his stomach and in his chest bloom, piercing and painful through the fog. 

It spurred Martin on, and he finished more quickly than he thought he would. “There,” Martin murmured, when the last silvery carcass had been dug out. His left thumb brushed over Jon’s knee, an unconscious motion he didn’t quite understand the purpose of, but felt right all the same. “All done.” He looked up to Jon’s face, only to see it didn’t seem like he’d heard. His face was still screwed up, tears gleaming on his cheeks and the glove bitten tightly between his teeth, as if he was still bracing for the next poke of the knife. “Jon,” Martin said again, softly. And then, through some long forgotten instinct to comfort, Martin raised his hand, and gently brushed his fingers over Jon’s cheek, wiping at the tears. Jon’s eyes flew open, blinking wildly, and settled on Martin’s, wide and watery. A strange flash of...something sparked in the caverns of Martin’s heart. “They’re all out,” he said softly. 

Jon let out a sigh of relief through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. One of his trembling hands rose to take the glove from his mouth. There were visible teeth marks in it, and it was soaked in spit. Jon looked about to mindlessly hand it back before he caught himself, looking it over. “Oh,” he said hoarsely, sounding a little lost, “sorry, I-I can—”

“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin said, gently taking it. When he did, he caught a glance of his wrist—bare now, without the glove—and saw a distinct, circular wound just above the sleeve. “Oh,” he said.

Jon looked at him sharply. “What?”

Martin looked back at him, lowering his hand. “Nothing,” he said. Because it was. He could deal with it. He didn’t even _feel_ it.

He took the waterskin he’d brought and opened the cap, gently running water over the sluggishly bleeding wounds on Jon’s leg. “There’s an unaffiliated village,” Martin murmured as he worked, picking up the bandages, “not far from the beginnings of Vast territory. We’ll head there first. Get some real medical supplies, maybe get a doctor to call on you.”

“No _unaffiliated_ doctor will want anything to do with us,” Jon muttered. 

“They will for enough coin,” Martin answered distractedly. “They’ll see you or I will _make_ them see you.”

Jon didn’t reply to that, and when Martin glanced up at him he was looking away, a strange dark flush to his cheeks. Martin frowned. “Are you feeling okay? Not lightheaded or anything?” 

Jon blinked back at him. “What? No, I—well, my leg _hurts,_ but I’m not about to pass out if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good,” Martin said, finishing the act of winding the bandage. “There. That should keep things clean enough until we get there.”

“Okay,” Jon said faintly, after a moment. 

Martin took that as his cue to give Jon some space. He took the knife over to the creek and ran the blood off with the current, watching as it dissolved away among the rivulets. When it seemed clean enough, he took it back to the fire—now mostly small, pitiful flames—and ran the blade through once more. When it seemed hot enough, he removed it, watching as the dull glow faded.

He waited what seemed like an appropriate amount of time for it to cool before removing the arm guard he wore, shrugging up his sleeve, and turning the blade into his own arm, digging where he could see the silver flash of a dead worm. Any pain he might have felt at the action had long been burned away.

“Wha—what are you _doing?! Stop_ there’s a—” suddenly Jon was hobbling to settle beside him, taking the wrist of his left arm and drawing it away from his right, looking at him with bright, incredulous eyes. “There’s an _artery_ there, you can’t just go digging around like that.”

Martin blinked at him, taken aback by their sudden proximity. Jon’s eyelashes were long and dark. His face was flushed, making his skin a tad darker than it was usually. Jon’s left hand held his right, skin touching unguarded skin. Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d been genuinely touched. He certainly could not remember anything like this insistent warmth that bled through Jon’s hand into his. That strange feeling in Martin’s chest started up again—not the unpleasant one, but something hot and insistent that he didn’t know the name of. “Worms,” Martin said stupidly, when it seemed as though Jon was still waiting for a reply. “Have to get them out.”

Jon frowned, looking down at his wrist and then up at his exposed forearm. His fingers skirted gently, that trailing heat sparking over Martin’s skin. Martin truly didn’t know whether he wanted to lean away or lean into it. Which would hurt less?

“I didn’t see them get you,” Jon murmured, looking up at him, “when did...?”

Martin shrugged. “Must have been in the dirt.”

Jon’s frown deepened for a moment, but then a complicated flash of emotions passed over his face. Martin watched, perplexed, as Jon’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed and his mouth opened slightly and he just...looked at Martin. “I...I didn’t know,” Jon said, his voice wavering, “I-I swear, I didn’t—I, I should have seen..” He swallowed, going pale, dropping his eyes. “I almost _left_ you there, _trapped—“_

 _Oh._ “It’s okay,” Martin told him, honestly, still a little confused at the intensity of his reaction. “I would have been fine. I’d have just gotten out the same way I did.”

“Still,” Jon said, looking up at him, “that’s not the point. It wasn’t my intention to—” he cut himself off, glancing away, and when he looked back his eyes were wide and earnest. “I’m sorry. You—lord, you’re only trying to do your job and here I am nearly getting you killed—“

“Jon,” Martin said firmly. “It’s fine.”

Jon swallowed what looked like a retort, glancing down, and then at Martin’s arms, still held in his. “Why didn’t you ask me for help?” he asked, almost to himself. But then he looked up at Martin. “I was _right there._ ”

Martin didn’t exactly have an answer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked for help. Especially not the last time he’d expected anyone to give any. 

Thankfully, Jon continued, “here, give me the knife,” and quietly set to work. He held the knife in a way that indicated he wasn’t used to it, almost like a paintbrush, but his movements were careful and precise. Martin watched him, as strands of hair fell into his face and he absently blew them away. As he bit the inside of his cheek in concentration, eyes purposefully narrowed. 

That feeling started up again. 

“I guess it’s a good thing,” Jon said abruptly, nearly causing Martin to startle, “for you at least. It’ll be hard for me to run away now,” he said, only a little bitterly. Martin frowned, studying him as his focus was drawn away. _Why_ are you running away, Martin wanted to ask. What are you running from? But Jon continued, “still, I maintain that the easier answer for both of us would be you just letting me go. Then you could go back to the Lonely domain and I could go back to G—“ Jon stopped himself then, wide eyes flicking up to meet Martin’s for a second before looking down at Martin’s arm with intense focus again. “Then I can be left in peace,” he said instead, faintly. 

Martin studied him, wondering what Jon had been about to say. He found himself saying, “I doubt I’d end up back in the Lonely.”

Jon paused, blinking up to look at him. “What?”

“It’d need to be somewhere Magnus could see,” Martin told him. “If they decide to keep me alive.”

Jon’s brow slowly furrowed as he stared at him. “ _What?”_

Martin frowned at him. “Jon,” Martin said slowly, “did you think Magnus _or_ Lord Lukas would just...let me go back if I don’t deliver you to him?”

Jon’s expression was utterly still for a moment, but then he looked... _stricken._ “I...I-I didn’t,” his eyes flitted around as if looking for something, settling to look at his hands. “Surely he wouldn’t—but it—it wouldn’t have been your _fault!”_

Martin merely looked at him, and waited for him to realize that that wouldn’t have mattered. And he did realize. Martin saw the moment it passed onto his face, and then dissolved in favor of such an acute look of misery Martin couldn’t have mistaken it for anything else. 

He searched for something to say, and finding he had nothing he was certain would help—he didn’t even know _why_ Jon was upset—he just waited, watching Jon’s profile when he turned his face away. 

After a few moments, Jon turned back, his expression carefully unreadable. He shifted, carefully keeping his leg from bending, and reached for Martin’s arm again. At a loss, Martin gave it to him. 

Jon brought the tip of the blade to his skin again, his expression indicating his thoughts were far away. He paused before cutting in again, though, looking up at Martin. “Thank you,” he said. “For saving my life.”

Martin stared back at him, a reply caught in his throat by just how earnest Jon sounded, his brown eyes the most unguarded he’d ever seen them. He missed his window to answer when Jon looked down and continued to work at digging the last few worms out. Martin, as he was accustomed to, didn’t feel much of the pain. But he couldn’t shift his attention from the heady, burning warmth of Jon’s fingers, gently holding his wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone’s confused, there’s the kingdom of the Lonely—run by our favorite Lukas—and then the Lonely itself, so ones like a place devoted to it and the other is the literal fear manifestation lol
> 
> When all you want to do is escape your arranged marriage but if you do the guy who saved your life is gonna get murked. Don’t you guys hate it when that happens? (Little does Jon know Martin’s resigned to that happening ANYWAY)
> 
> Also I don’t know anything about horses ok so if any of y’all are horse people don’t come for me ok I don’t knOW
> 
> Also clearly this enemies to lovers scenario won’t be too much of a slow burn probably—as we can see from this chapter I cannot control the GAY. Any of y’all listen to the episode today?? Bc all I have to say is my fucking god. These bitches gay. Good for them. Good for them.


	3. Chapter 3

It didn’t take long after they’d left the forest behind them to reach the nearest unaffiliated village. The sun had sunk beyond the horizon by the time they were able to see the great, towering wall that surrounded the village, meant to withstand attack and sieges. The chill of the late hour had set in, with the incessant winds blowing over the plains that made up edges of the Vast. 

Martin noticed exactly how cold it must have been when he caught Jon desperately trying to keep from shivering, with his arms tucked tight to his body and jaw set tight. Wordlessly, Martin leaned over as they rode and reached into the saddlebag, pulling out a worn blue cloak. Jon startled when Martin draped it over his shoulders, glancing back at him.

Martin couldn’t determine exactly why it was so hard to think clearly, when Jon looked at him. 

“We’re almost there,” he decided on saying, when Jon just...kept looking at him. 

He drew his eyes away to focus on the road, but still felt Jon’s gaze on the side of his face. In his periphery, he saw Jon’s hands slowly grasp the corners of the cloak and pull it tighter around him, before he finally turned away. 

Martin hadn’t realized how much of that earlier tension had left Jon’s frame until they were approaching the gates, where a few armed guards paced, and Jon straightened, going stiff with anticipation. Martin guided the horse to the gates slowly, carefully keeping his hands far away from his sword. Unaffiliated territories were always overly cautious, their residents a curious mix of those who had never been marked by the Fears and those who had defected from another territory, for some reason or another. And none were eager to stray from their tenuous neutrality and the relative safety the territory provided. 

Martin saw the moment the guards recognized what he was, because the next instant they were drawing weapons. Jon went even more tense against him. “Martin...”

“It’s fine,” Martin told him evenly, though he watched carefully as the two that guarded the gates approached. The woman on the left looked assessing, sharp and intelligent, but with an edge to her, as if coiled to spring. Perhaps ex-Hunt. Restraint was not common among the Slaughter’s chosen. And the other--more striking in appearance with his long black hair, eye tattoos, and piercings--watched them even more closely, as if drinking them in. Martin caught a glimpse of Jon’s face, as he looked warily at the man but also with a hint of curiosity, as if trying to place him.

“What business does a Lonely knight have here?” the woman asked, raising an unimpressed brow.

“No business other than a brief stop for the night,” Martin answered honestly, looking between them carefully.

The woman glanced at the man, who nodded, once. “True,” he said, though the intensity in the man’s gaze did not let up. He tilted his head, considering them. “Why are you passing through then? Your kind don’t tend to stray too far from Lonely borders.”

“That’s of no concern of yours,” Martin said calmly. “If you’d just ask if we mean the village any harm, we could be on our way.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed at that, but the man let out a bark of a laugh, wide grin splitting. “Gods, you Lonely types are _dry,_ aren’t you?” he said easily. His tone was casual enough, but his eyes remained shrewd and assessing as they flicked to look at Jon, then back at him. “Beholding and Lonely. There’s a pair you don’t see everyday.”

“Are you going to let us through or not?” Jon suddenly snapped, eyes narrowed. 

The man’s eyes settled on Jon for a longer moment, that casual facade dropping from his face in favor of something carefully assessing. He looked back at Martin. “Why are you passing through?”

Martin sighed. “I told you--”

“And I _asked you,_ ” the man suddenly said, compulsion buzzing in his voice, “ _why are you passing through?”_

Martin grit his teeth, holding back the air that rushed from his lungs in order to respond. It was stronger than he would have expected from a defector--had he left Beholding recently? Must have. No matter. The compulsion would pass. Eventually. Martin let the fog swallow down the impulse to respond, and ignored the very distant ache he could feel building in his skull. He stared back at the man, silent. His nose twinged, and something wet rolled over his lip. 

Jon glanced back at him, eyes wide, and his head whipped back to look at the man, body going tense. “Stop it,” he hissed, only relaxing marginally when the man finally broke eye contact with Martin. At the loss, the compulsion broke off, and Martin was able to let out a slow, steadying breath. “He’s...he’s just escorting me...home,” Jon said, though his voice was almost...pained, saying the last word. “To Beholding. That’s all. Alright?”

The man looked over Jon’s face for a moment. “Well?” the woman asked beside him, sounding impatient now. 

“True,” the man said again. After another curious glance at the two of them, he took a step aside, lowering his sword. The woman mirrored the movement, rolling her eyes and looking away, as if the whole thing had been a waste of time. “Go right along, then,” the man said, after a moment, gesturing lazily with the sword. 

Martin didn’t deign to give the man a response, simply giving the horse a nudge to get them going again. He heard them whisper to each other when they’d passed, but paid it no mind. There was nothing quite like the nosiness of Beholding-types. 

He blinked out of his thoughts when Jon again looked back at him, searching his face. “Are you alright?” Jon asked, surprisingly earnest.

Martin was a bit taken aback by the attention, his brow furrowing as he stared back. “What?”

Jon’s frown deepened, and before Martin could process what he was doing Jon was reaching out, his thumb brushing over the space between his nose and mouth. In the moment, Martin could only remain stock still and think of nothing but the warmth of the touch, like a brand sparking over skin. It took him a few seconds to shift his gaze from Jon’s face, to his hand, drawn back, held up for him to see. There was a clear smear of blood on the pad of his thumb. 

Martin raised a brow. “Ah,” he said. He raised the back of his hand to his nose, wiping away the rest. The blood was stark against pale skin. “Strange he was so strong, so far from Beholding.”

“I...I think that was Gerard Keay,” Jon murmured after a moment, brow furrowed in thought.

Martin took a moment to absorb this information. “ _The_ Gerard Keay? Right hand to Lady Robinson before her deposition?”

“I--I think so,” Jon said after a beat, as if lost in thought, “he matched the description given in archive statements.”

Martin hummed consideringly, eyes scanning over the few people he could see out in the late hour. The village was largely quiet, the road lit by swinging lantern lights from the small establishments and shops that flanked the path. 

“Why didn’t you just answer him?” Jon asked abruptly, drawing his attention again. When Martin met Jon’s eyes they were unreadable, save for a clear, burning curiosity. 

It wasn’t asked with compulsion. Martin answered as honestly as he could. “The less people that know who you are and what we’re doing, the better. I’m sure you know why. Plenty wouldn’t hesitate to use you as a bargaining chip to get to Magnus.”

Jon’s expression soured, and he looked away. “Right,” he said, shortly, after a moment. He said nothing after that. 

It gave Martin time to wonder why the mere mention of Magnus’ name, or a reminder of where they were headed, seemed to put him in such a gloomy mood. He supposed it could have just been that Jon clearly didn’t want to be carted off to marriage, but Jon seemed almost...afraid. 

Was that right? Would that explain the way Jon’s shoulders went stiff and hiked up? The way Martin could feel a loftier sense of loneliness settle around him like a cloak?

Jon tried to hide the feeling, regardless, and he hid it almost well. But Martin wondered if it might be harder for him to do so, the closer they got to Beholding. 

Martin decided he didn’t like that particular thought, and cast it out of his mind, smoothing it over with fog and smoke.

* * *

By the time they finally reached an inn with available space, Jon looked ready to fall off the horse. Martin silently wondered if it truly wasn’t his arm around his middle that effectively kept him upright. He leaned forward, saying softly, “Jon?”

Jon jerked, head twisting to look at him, blinking fatigue from his eyes. “Hm?”

“This place will do,” Martin told him, gesturing at the inn. He caught the eye of a stablehand, also nearly falling asleep on his feet, and waved him over. 

He looked back to see Jon squinting up at the establishment. “Here?” Jon said dubiously. His pupils dilated noticeably, and then he said, “it’s owned by an unaffiliated family.”

Martin hummed. “It also seems to be the only one letting in guests for the night,” he said, swinging off the horse to dismount. He held out a hand for Jon to do the same, and though he was shaky and needed help with the landing due to his leg, Martin was pleased to note he seemed to remember what to do flawlessly. Martin steadied him with hands braced under his elbows and murmured, absently, “good.” He turned his attention to handing the horse’s lead to the stablehand, and when he turned back, Jon was looking away, his cheeks flushed.

Did he have a fever? Was he in pain? Martin eyed his leg and the way he shied away from putting any weight on it, concerned. “Here,” he said, reaching out an arm, “lean on me.”

Jon blinked at him, startled and then indignant, like a cat rudely interrupted from its own musings. “What? No, that’s--not--”

“Jon,” Martin admonished. 

Jon stared back at him, jaw set, for a moment more before sighing, the picture of put upon. He leaned against Martin, arm wound around him like he was reluctant to touch, and then, after they took a step, his arm clutched with more bruising weight, as he again realized the pain of movement. 

“How did you know this place is owned by an unaffiliated family?” Martin asked him, as they walked. 

“Hm?” Jon asked, brow furrowed before he seemed to process the question, the expression smoothing out for something more sheepish. “I just, um. Sometimes I just know. Things. I, um. I try not to, a-about people. They don’t tend to like it.”

Martin considered this quietly for a moment, before carefully tugging the fog around his mind closer, building it up like a wall. Jon looked at him sharply, eyes narrowing. “I--I wasn’t looking in your head.”

“Then how did you know what I was doing just now?”

Jon opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again and said, petulantly. “It wasn’t like that. It’s like...everyone has a bit of background noise, a mumble of imperceptible thoughts, and yours just went quiet.”

Martin raised a brow. “Sounds irritating.”

“It is,” Jon muttered. “It’s why I tend to not pay attention to any of it unless I absolutely need to. Besides, you’ve--” He abruptly cut off, looking away.

Martin’s eyes narrowed, scanning over Jon’s face. He looked as though he were adamantly trying to pretend he hadn’t said anything. “I what?” Martin asked.

Jon rolled his eyes. “You,” he huffed, “have been _impossible_ to get a read on. All that damned fog roiling in your head. It’s...not very inviting.”

Martin snorted, opening the aging wooden door of the small inn. The sign advertising it as such creaked in the wind above them. “I should hope not,” Martin said. He eyed Jon as they entered, watching him shudder in relief as they entered the warm embrace of the building, though he still had the edges of the cloak drawn around him tight. And he still leaned into Martin’s side, a persistent warmth impossible to ignore. “Is that common among the Eye-touched?” he asked curiously. When Jon looked at him, frowning, he clarified, “knowing without asking?”

Jon blinked, and then his eyes were drifting away. “It’s not...not very common, no.” Martin opened his mouth to press, but Jon blurted, abruptly, “but it’s not _unheard_ of, in Beholding. Especially those who’ve trained for it. Magnus himself has that and more.”

“Is that why he wants you?” Martin asked, thoughtlessly. Of course, as soon as the question was uttered Jon’s expression shuttered and closed off. 

Luckily, he wasn’t meant to brave any tense silence or angry retort, because a door further inside opened, and a middle aged woman was walking out of it. She must have registered they had patrons, because even before looking up she rattled off, “hello dears, fees for a night are...” 

She trailed off, though, when she looked up and saw them. Her eyes went wide, her face pale. Like magnetized, they found Martin’s sword after a moment spent caught on his face. 

Martin fought a sigh, silently bemoaning that he had brought the cloak specifically for this purpose of making himself less...noticeable, but Jon had finally stopped his shivering, which he found...pleasing. Besides, it would have been the work of luck to escape any notice of his bone white curls or grey eyes. The two together were often only indicative of one thing. 

“You...” the woman whispered, trembling, “y-you’re a--”

Martin took pity on her, quickly removing his coin pouch from his belt and shaking more than the appropriate amount onto the wooden counter that separated them. The woman flinched at the sudden noise, but then her eyes were widening for a different reason, as she took in the amount of coin. “We need a room for a night,” Martin told her. “As well as a bath run in the morning.”

“Morning?” Jon hissed at him. At Martin’s dry look, he gestured to himself. He was truly quite filthy, and Martin was no better, having spent an unfortunate portion of the day underneath the ground. 

“What clothes were you thinking of changing into afterward?” Martin pointed out.

Jon’s mouth opened, then closed, a look of frustrated discontent settling on his face. His eyes slid away, no longer combative but slightly melancholic. That strange, unpleasant feeling twinged in Martin’s gut.

 _Why are you running_ , he wanted to ask. _Why am I to deliver you with nothing but the clothes on your back?_

He ran his eyes over Jon’s leg for a moment, then looked back at the woman and added, “and we’ll need a doctor called for the morning as well.”

Jon sighed, but said nothing in protest, which Martin knew meant he was still in a decent amount of pain. 

The woman looked between them nervously, but the amount of coin on the table seemed to win out the wary battle. She gathered them, and told them, with poorly concealed distaste, “up the stairs, third door on the right.” 

Martin took the key she proffered, not reacting as she lurched back as soon as possible, as if his skin would scald her. He smiled politely at her. Something about that always seemed to make them look more afraid. 

He was aware of the woman’s shrewd, fearful eyes following them as they made their way up the stairs, and decided one night was one night long enough. People did very stupid things when they were afraid, after all, and he didn’t want them to outstay their tenuous welcome. 

The room was sparse, and small, but decidedly warm. Jon seemed to think it was good enough, or maybe it was just the pretense of someplace almost private, but as soon as the door closed he was sinking back against it, a sigh leaving him long and slow. 

Martin looked at him, watching as his eyes twitched beneath thin lids, eyelashes fluttering against dark skin. Watched the line of his throat bob up and down as he swallowed, and his chest rise and fall with measured breaths. Martin’s eyes skirted over the thin bones of his wrists, the delicate arch of his neck. 

His chest felt hot. 

He watched as Jon’s eyes opened, slowly, and trailed over the room, settling on something over Martin’s shoulder. That flushed look on his face returned. “Oh,” Jon said.

Martin turned, looking for what might have caused the reaction, but he only saw the bed crowded against the corner. He looked back, studying the fatigue that was clear on Jon’s face, as well as that other, strange emotion that he didn’t quite know how to classify, all flushed cheeks and slightly wide eyes. “You should get some sleep,” he said.

Jon glanced at him, then the bed, then back. “But,” he said, after a moment, “there’s--I mean, should we just...”

Martin frowned at him, following his gaze once more to the bed before understanding struck him. “Oh,” he said. “It’s fine, you can take it.”

Jon’s brow furrowed as he stared at him, unmoving from his slump against the door. “Don’t you sleep?”

“Of course I sleep, Jon,” Martin said.

“Well,” Jon spluttered, “then where will you--?”

“I can sleep on the floor.”

Jon’s expression spasmed, disbelief and distaste warring. “The _floor?_ Don’t be--that sounds _awful_.”

Martin shrugged. “I won’t feel it,” he said simply. 

Whatever quick quip Jon had ready seemed to die on his tongue as he stared at Martin, brown eyes assessing. “You...you really don’t feel pain?”

Jon’s expression was utterly unreadable. “No,” Martin said, “I don’t.”

“Well,” Jon said slowly, after a moment, “just because you don’t _feel_ it doesn’t mean it doesn't actually hurt, right?”

Martin faltered, staring at him. “What?”

The determined look in Jon’s expression began gaining traction, as Jon reasoned, “just because you can’t feel it doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.”

“I...”

“So, just because you can’t _feel_ your muscles aching on the floor, doesn’t mean they aren’t, right?” Jon said, tilting his head and waiting for Martin to respond. 

Martin couldn’t contain the bemused frown on his face. “Why does that matter?” he asked.

“What do you--” Jon cut off, his face screwing up incredulously, before he gave a great sigh and said, “Martin, it means, we...there’s a perfectly fine bed, and it’s big enough, alright?” He paused, that flush on his face again, but seemed to quickly decide against waiting for a response, because he crossed the distance to the bed instead, his back to Martin as he shucked off his shoes with more force than seemed necessary. He then tucked himself into the corner of the bed closest the wall, drawing Martin’s cloak tighter around himself. 

He was still, but Martin didn’t think he was actually sleeping. He seemed too tense for that. 

Martin watched him curiously as he shucked off his armor, carefully trying to keep the sounds to a minimum. He looked down at his clothes, dusty from his brush with the Buried, and secretly wished for a bath himself. Though he had spare clothes for himself, he doubted any of his would fit Jon. He’d need to go to a market tomorrow, see what he could scrounge up. 

Even though Jon had hinted that he wouldn’t mind sharing the bed, Martin still found himself hesitating as he approached, remembering Jon’s on and off aversion to being touched. Slowly, he leaned his sword against the wall by the bed, and sat down on the lumpy mattress. Jon tensed at the movement, and Martin stilled. He watched as the muscles of Jon’s back and shoulders slowly, almost consciously, released that tension. 

He slid in the rest of the way, paying close attention to the line of Jon’s shoulders, which didn’t seem to react. The bed truly was just big enough, ensuring there was a sliver of space between them. Martin didn’t dare cross it. He could already feel the heat from Jon’s body seeping under the covers, prickling against his skin. Martin shut his eyes, carefully casting his mind away from the incessant, maddening warmth. 

The quiet was almost tense, thick as if it could be cut with a knife. Though Jon seemed relaxed, his breaths seemed too carefully even to indicate he had fallen asleep. Martin frowned. Had he...done something wrong? A thought struck him, and he whispered, into the silence, “goodnight, Jon.”

Jon stiffened, though went boneless again so quickly after Martin almost thought he’d imagined it. He heard Jon sigh, softly, in the silence. It was quiet for so long Martin thought he wasn’t going to respond, and the darkness had almost carried him off regardless, when he heard Jon whisper, “goodnight.”

Martin heard Jon’s breaths level out in favor of true sleep a few minutes later, as exhaustion dragged him under.

Martin dreamt of memories blocked away by fog. Memories that stung like winds of salt, crusted over with brine. Memories so lonely they ached themselves, like old, rattling bones in the cold. 

But he never remembered his dreams, anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not immune to the "there was only one bed" trope
> 
> Also I just...I love the concept of Martin struggling to remember how to be a person after the Lonely, like that's my *shit*
> 
> Also also, I didn't actually plan to write in Gerry or Basira in this story but I was like eh what the hell, let's do it. Might see Gerry again for a hot sec 👀


	4. Chapter 4

He dreamed of a door. It was a sturdy looking thing, lovely, sanded oak painted over with a shining lacquer. The door handle was brass, and gleamed even in the low light. He saw, suddenly, a flash of a man, with wild curls and freckles and bright green eyes working on the door itself, painstakingly making it beautiful, though, Martin knew, there was never enough money to spare for such things. But the man made it beautiful regardless, because it was for the woman he loved.

He dreamed he was standing before the door. He was shaking. Distantly, he could feel a body that was no longer his, and it was so very unsteady with terror and dread and the impending urge to vomit. His hand was reaching out for the handle, trembling and pale, with fingers stained with dirt and something darker, something tinged red. He took a breath, perhaps to steady himself, and registered only a reeking scent of rot and decay, sickly sweet like overripe fruit, or putrid flowers. 

He dreamed of opening the door. It creaked on its hinges loudly, like a warning. It hadn’t creaked before, had it? When it was well-cared for, loved like the woman inside was? 

There had once been a vase of lilacs on the bedside table. He caught a flash of them as they’d once looked, bright, lovely. 

His mother had liked lilacs. 

But in the dream the vase was shattered on the floor by the bedside, water long since sunk into the floorboards and making them weak with wood rot, the flowers shriveled and dead against the grain of the wooden floor. 

The room stank, sickly sweet and putrid and metallic. 

In his narrow view, he saw a pale hand hanging off the bed, contrasted by rivulets of red and a vile, putrid, rotting black liquid.

_Knock._

The sound echoed, from a distant point in the house. The scent of rot flooded his nose, growing stronger and stronger and stronger.

_Knock._

He had to move. He had to answer it, didn’t he? He—he had to open the front door. But first he had to open _this_ door, the door that his hand had frozen on, dread and terror rooting him to the floor, he had to see her, he had to know, surely she wasn’t—

_Knock._

Surely he wasn’t—

_Knock._

Surely there was _someone—_

_Knock knock knock knock knock—_

Martin blinked awake to the beams of the inn's ceiling, fog sweeping over his dreams like mist on the water.

_Knock. Knock._

Another polite pair of knocks sounded at the door. 

It took Martin a moment to remember where he was, and then another moment to register the feeling of rhythmic, steady breaths against his neck and a point of warmth settled on his stomach. He looked to his right and saw Jon’s face on the other pillow, slack in sleep. Even on horseback, when Jon was sitting in front of him, he hadn’t seemed this close. 

He was still wrapped in Martin’s cloak, he realized. The royal blue tangled up in the bedsheets, contrasting colors like swathes of streaking paint. He didn’t know why the sight sent a flood of heat in the cavern of his chest.

Jon looked younger in sleep. It was easy to realize how much tension he carried on his face usually, now that it was all smoothed away. The constant pinch between his brows was gone, the line of his mouth gentle, relaxed, no longer set in a pensive or discontented frown. His eyelashes were dark and long against the lovely skin of his cheeks. 

Jon had the kind of face that artists would have liked to paint, Martin thought. Looking at him, then, brought a flood inadequate descriptors to Martin’s mind, none of them quite enough to capture exactly what he was seeing. Words he might have wanted to commit to pen and paper had they been at all close to conveying the truth of it.

It was a strange thought. He couldn’t recall ever having bothered to write anything that wasn’t for the purposes of an assignment from one of the generals, or, on the rare occasion, Lord Lukas.

Jon shifted slightly in sleep, his face turning a bit more into the pillow. His thumb shifted where his hand rested on Martin’s stomach, barely moving an inch but still, through the thin shirt, without his armor as a barrier, it felt like a trail of fire, impossible to ignore. 

Another knock sounded at the door. Jon twitched a little at the sound, but otherwise remained deeply asleep. Martin let his eyes linger on his face for a moment longer, before slowly, carefully, slipping out from under Jon’s hand. 

When he opened the door, it was to the wide eyed face of a servant girl, a large cauldron of water resting on the floor beside her. “You, um,” she squeaked, “you requested a-a—“

Wordlessly, Martin stepped aside, holding the door open farther. She took up the cauldron with hands that trembled only slightly, slipping around him with a wide berth and entering the room. 

Martin retreated back to the bed to give her room to work, as she began the tedious process of tending to the small fire pit and heating up the water to fill the modest brass tub in the corner. He had strayed far enough from the kingdom of the Lonely often enough that he knew that the knights’ reputation was well known throughout other territories. _Whatever you do,_ they all seemed to say, with terrified eyes and fear-stricken tongues, _do not cross one of the knights. No pleas can persuade them. For they feel nothing for you, or me, or anyone. They will cut you down faster than breathing._

He saw it in all their faces, and he supposed that fear was not unearned. They were not, after all, wrong.

If it were just himself, he would leave to give her more space to work without fear, but he refused to leave Jon alone with this stranger in the room, under any circumstances. He watched her absently, glancing at the light peeking through the curtains in the window. It seemed almost dawn. “Is it late enough that the market might be open?” he asked her, keeping his voice low. Thankfully, Jon didn’t stir.

The woman startled at his voice, looking back wide eyed, but her expression seemed to settle into something calmer once she’d registered the question. With a glance to Jon, she added in the same low tone, tentatively, “suppose it’s late enough. You might not find a great variety, but some shops should be open.”

Martin nodded absently, his eyes skirting over Jon’s face. “And the village doctor?” he asked, after a moment. The woman startled again, looking back over her shoulder at him. “When should we expect them?”

The woman stared at him for a moment before speaking, her hands twitching nervously. “He begins his calls in the early morning,” she answered. “Should be here in an hour or so.” Martin nodded again, looking away. She seemed to almost turn back to her work, before glancing back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes flitted to Jon on the bed. “Is the doctor for him, then?”

Martin looked back at her sharply, drawing a flinch he didn’t quite intend. He pointedly did not answer. 

She turned away then, a look of fear on her face, but not without a quick, pity-filled glance toward Jon. Unbidden, possible assumptions she might have made flitted through his head. That he’d hurt Jon. That he was returning Jon to the Lonely. It was the most common reason any Lonely Knight would be so far from the kingdom. 

He didn’t know why the false connections she must have drawn prickled at his skin, an uncomfortable feeling he couldn’t escape within the confines of his own flesh. 

She finished her work quickly, without engaging again, as if she could sense his vague discontent. 

He turned to Jon after she’d left, a hand hovering over his shoulder to wake him. He paused there, for a moment, looking at the slight shadows under Jon’s eyes. He must have been exhausted, sleeping so deeply for so long. Briefly, Martin wondered when the last time he’d slept had been. Or slept well. Considering the last company he’d kept had been the huntress, Martin didn’t think that would make for a restful experience. 

With a sideways glance at the steaming water from the tub, he gently placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Jon,” he whispered, giving his arm a little shake.

Jon’s brow furrowed, twisting up in mild discontent at being woken up. Slowly, his eyes blinked open and settled on Martin, hazy with sleep. Until that fatigue abruptly cleared, and Jon was tense and alert, eyes skirting around a bit wildly. It took him a moment to settle, adjusting to the still-unfamiliar surroundings. Martin preferred this slow, loosening set of his shoulders to the tense, guarded kind. 

Martin saw the moment Jon noticed the bath, and the moment that came after, in which Jon realized the room didn’t really lend itself to privacy.

Martin stood, the motion drawing Jon’s suddenly wary gaze. “I’m going to the market,” Martin told him, “I’ll get you some clothes. And,” he added, glancing at Jon’s practically ruined shoes, “some shoes suitable for travel.”

Jon blinked at him, that wary look dissipating in favor of mild surprise. His fingers absently twisted in Martin’s cloak, still draped around him, though he seemed to have forgotten this fact. “Oh,” he said. “Um. Thank you.”

Martin nodded, his face feeling, inexplicably, warm. He whirled around, heading for the corner where he piled his armor before a thought struck him. His armor was easy to spot, and the Lonely colors of it would be clear to any observer. The errand might go smoother if he went without them. 

He glanced back at Jon, and caught him hastily looking away. Martin supposed he couldn’t fault one of Beholding for staring. “Jon?” he asked. When Jon looked back at him, raising a brow, he added, “could I take that back for a bit?” 

Jon frowned, his brow crumpling in confusion as he looked down to identify where Martin was pointing. “Take what ba-- _oh,_ ” he said, eyes widening as he registered he was still wearing the cloak. His face flushed as he scrambled to take it off. His cheeks were dark as he held it out, and he ran his lips between his teeth nervously. “I, um. I’m sorry,” he was saying, “I didn’t--”

“It’s fine, Jon,” Martin replied softly, reaching for the fabric. When their fingers brushed, there was such an acute spark of warmth against his skin that a noise nearly escaped his throat. He swallowed it down, finding it easier to look at the blue wool than Jon’s wide, brown eyes. “It’ll just make things go smoother in the market.”

He saw Jon’s head tilt out of the corner of his eye. “People do seem terrified of you, don’t they?” Jon said. Martin couldn’t exactly identify his tone, and when he looked up, Jon was staring back at him evenly. “Do you get that a lot?”

Again, Martin felt that strange heat in his face at the scrutiny. He shrugged, glancing away and willing that heat away. “I suppose. I don’t often find myself this far from the Lonely kingdom’s borders, though.”

“And not often in unaffiliated territory?” Jon guessed, raising a brow.

Martin hesitated, recalling all the frantic attempts of those who had breached the Lonely kingdom’s stormy walls to escape into the anonymous tides of unmarked villages. He’d hunted them all down, in the end. They’d had no one but themselves and their fevered hopes, and it was impossible to escape the Lonely’s cold tendrils alone. There was always a trace of fog to follow, heaved from panicked lungs. “I’m not well acquainted with this village,” he settled on saying instead, after a beat too long, in which Jon’s sharp eyes searched every feature of his face. 

Martin wondered, absently, what Jon saw. 

“Well,” Jon said, after a moment, “I don’t think you’re that frightening.”

Martin’s head jerked to stare at him, his mouth opening, then closing soundlessly. Jon didn’t hold his gaze long, instead turning to ease out of bed and peek behind the curtains of the window, but Martin couldn’t help but stare after him for a moment. It was a foolish thing to say, and an even more foolish thing to believe. Plenty of things looked harmless, but could kill you very quickly. 

And yet, there was a strange, distant feeling in his chest, as if the memory of the warmth of Jon’s hand on his stomach had sunk straight through his skin and wrapped fingers around his heart. 

Suddenly feeling off-balance, Martin tried to get his fumbling fingers to cooperate in flinging the cloak around him, casting the hood over his head. It didn’t fully cover his curls. Straightening, Martin crossed the room to the dredges of the fire, slowly smoldering out. He scooped up some of the cooled ashes at the edges, dirtying his hair and darkening it. He glanced up at the curls he could see, and decided it seemed convincing enough. 

When he straightened back up, Jon was staring at him. “That,” he said dryly, raising a brow, “looks laughable.”

Martin frowned, stretching a chunk of curls farther from his forehead and catching a better glimpse of it. “Does it?” he asked. He supposed the white did seem to peek through. He reached for more ash.

“Lord, just--let me,” Jon said, crossing the room. He seemed more able than yesterday to put weight on his bad leg, though Martin’s warning against too much movement was met only with a dry look. And then Jon was settling beside him, his leg stretched out, which turned him closer toward Martin. He watched as Jon’s fingers reached for the spot in the fire pit Martin had pulled from. Without thinking, Martin’s hand shot out and clutched his wrist, stopping him. 

“Not there,” Martin murmured, when Jon turned a confused, wide eyed look on him. Jon’s pulse point fluttered under his finger tips, his skin burning with warmth. He felt it more than he had the actual heat from the fire, and for a moment, it muddied his thoughts, made coming up with the next few words a slow process, like honey thick on his tongue. “It’s still too hot,” he explained, not really having realized it until that moment, “you might hurt yourself.” He guided Jon’s hand further, to the very edges of the pit, and only then let go, his skin still burning with the memory of the touch. 

He could feel Jon’s eyes on the side of his face, and sure enough when he looked back at him those brown eyes were dark and intent on him. Jon’s eyes dropped to Martin’s hands and when he reached out, his fingertips brushing the skin on the back of Martin’s hand, Martin was too surprised to even think of pulling away, even as the touch felt like a flame to flesh. Jon’s fingers gently brushed over his own, studying the reddened skin under black flecks of ash. “You shouldn’t do that,” Jon muttered, looking up at him with furrowed brows. He looked almost frustrated.

Martin hesitated, an appropriate response not immediately coming to mind. “I heal quickly,” he settled on saying, though given the way Jon’s brows furrowed even more as he looked at him, it didn’t seem to be the assurance he’d meant it to be.

Jon huffed a breath, but seemed to drop the topic, reaching into the ash at the furthest corners of the pit, running it over his fingers for a moment. He looked at Martin’s hair and leaned closer. “Hold still,” he said, and suddenly he was very close, his face a few inches from Martin’s, and his fingers trailing through his hair.

Martin’s breath caught in his throat, as Jon’s breath ghosted over the skin of his face. From this close, Martin could see the hint of crow’s feet at the corners of Jon’s eyes. The variation of shades in his irises. He was biting his lip, his brow furrowed in focus, and Martin could not look away. 

That ghostlike hand around his heart felt, all of a sudden, tighter, hotter, impossible to ignore.

“Hmm, it’s...almost...” Jon murmured, as his fingers ran through Martin’s hair. “There,” he said, settling back, staring at his handiwork, “I think that’s--” he cut off after lowering his eyes to meet Martin’s, seeming to notice how close they were, and how utterly quiet it was, save for the faint smoldering of the dying fire and the booming thump of Martin’s heart that he was sure must have been audible.

For a moment, they were both frozen there, a moment suspended in time, in which Martin’s head buzzed with the memory of Jon’s hands on him, his skin prickling with the closeness, the warmth of another body an inch away. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. But he could have sworn Jon’s pupils were dilated, so large and dark they almost seemed to swallow his irises. 

But the fire cracked, an abrupt sound cutting through the quiet of the moment, and Jon was blinking, the line of his throat bobbing up and down, leaning back and away. “I...I think that looks fine,” Jon mumbled, his eyes skirting absently over the room to the left. “Um.” He looked down at his hands, rubbing ash between his fingertips. 

It was enough to jerk Martin from his stupor, the loss of that closeness enough to return the cool prickle of fog to his skin. He stood. “I’ll let you get washed up,” he said, crossing the room to pick up his sword. “I appreciate your help,” he said. When he looked back, Jon was still sitting on the floor, staring at him with a strange look on his face that dissipated so quickly Martin wasn’t sure he’d seen it. 

It had looked almost...lost.

That didn’t sit well. But Martin didn’t know what to do or say--wasn’t even sure he’d seen it right. He felt lost himself, floundering for something to say that was _right,_ working with an unfamiliar script, unsure he was even on the right page. 

But he couldn’t even let himself be Lonely correctly, couldn’t escape these maddening flashes of feeling that he’d always tried to hide. 

He was suddenly sure, as improbable as it was, that all of these thoughts were plain to see on his face. A restless huff of breath escaped him as he turned toward the door. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Lock the door behind me. Do not let anyone else in.”

He opened the door, and paused, his grip on the door handle tightening. He glanced back. “Jon?” he said, drawing Jon’s distant gaze away from the floor. The words crowded up at the base of his throat. He could feel the chill of them, he _knew_ how they would sound. But he had to say them, if anything, to forget the maddening grip that never seemed to let up around his heart. “If you try to leave, I will find you.”

Jon’s expression went, abruptly, blank, and then cold. The grip around Martin’s heart followed suit, a chill running through him, though it did nothing to make him feel better. 

He closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh! They're feeling feelings! What will happen as I devise new ways to get them very very close to each other??? And as there is more mortal peril???? Stay tuned ;)


End file.
